Stand of mine
by TraditionalGaily
Summary: A weekend spent at the seaside in some sleepy fishing village sounded promising, mission to accomplish during the stay aside. But as expected Buccellati has an ulterior motive.
1. Honeymooning (or not)

Abbacchio couldn't remember the name of the small village Buccellati had dragged him along to.  
They hadn't come to do sightseeing anyway.  
And if they had Abbacchio would have been curious about what it was, that was worth looking at in this rural area.  
Fish, probably.  
Or some rare crustacean, the residents would without a doubt refer to as 'delicacy'.  
_As they did with everything that could be dragged out of the sea..._

No, this was an important mission the two of them were to carry out.  
Some high-rank member of Passione had decided on giving up his life-long membership; turning his back and leaving.  
Problem was, Bastardo del Grappa didn't do so with a bullet through his chest (Which was the only way acceptable.) but via the backdoor after helping himself to an obscene amount of cash.  
And then he had fled to the seaside.

Tracking being the main requirement for this mission Abbacchio was a natural choice.

As for Buccellati...

"Anything you've noticed so far, Bruno?" Abbacchio whispered, feigning to take any interest in the things the fishermen around them did.  
(He wouldn't speculate on what it was they were doing, but they looked like they knew their craftsmanship so he left it at that.)

"Yeah, have you seen those nets? They'll never sustain a decent catch..."

...well, he had the tendency to get a little side-tracked in this environment.

Abbacchio sighed.

"I meant concerning our target," he continued once Buccellati was done criticising other people's fishing equipment.

"Not so far, but Caciocavallo over there," Buccellati pointed at a man fiddling with ropes, "39, father of 4, told me about some yacht-cruising yuppie inviting his niece to come on board for a short spin. Pretty vague with appearance though. Turns out Caciocavallo is a lot better at recognising marine life than people..."

They'd done a bit of talking.  
Alright, Buccellati had done the talking.

Abbacchio envied him for his ability to strike up a conversation with almost every fisherman they passed.  
Buccellati was quick on the uptake, practically a professional in this field of work, thanks to his upbringing, and had an honest to God face.

_And boy did it lie. _

"And you think it's Bastardo del Grappa?"

Buccellati shrugged.

"Could be. According to the niece he hasn't been here long. Also he told her that he was from Naples. Will you look at that!"

_Oh no. _

Before Abbacchio could have stopped him, Buccellati had walked up to another ship (Minus owner this time, thank God for that.) and started picking at the crackling varnish.

"That's no way to treat an aged beauty like you. I bet he hadn't given you a decent scrub in a while...ooh..."

He leaned closer gently brushing aside bits of paint and rust it was shedding while he cooed to 'her'.

"Oh, poor girl."

"That guy is obviously no longer interested in her!" Buccellati continued once pulled away from the abused ship. (And before the owner had returned; Abbacchio felt luck was on his side now.)

"Probably has his eyes on a newer model..."

"Right, right..." Abbacchio mumbled while scanning the surroundings for a new target he could sic Buccelati on.  
Considering the buzzing drift of fishermen it wasn't that hard.

_Strange really_, Abbacchio thought watching Buccellati share a story or two while once again lending a hand.  
_They treat him as an equal when he certainly doesn't look the part in his fancy clothes. _

Not the trademark white one; for this mission he'd opted for striped slacks and a légère grey sports coat. That and a blue and yellow shirt that was no match in any known galaxy.  
Especially with brown shoes.  
Also the braid was gone with the elongated strands woven into his sharply cut bob in a complicated manner.  
Abbacchio thought that he looked cute.  
And hated himself for it.

_But his hands probably check out, _Abbacchio concluded.

Buccellati didn't have a hand fetish.  
Though one might get the impression taking into account how picky he was. (Which 20 year old in his right mind cut his cuticles, let alone knew what part of the finger it was.)  
Fact was, Buccellati had the calloused and wrinkled hands of a man twice his age.  
A relict from hard labour at young age.  
That and his skin tone.  
A pretty, olive shade, but unlike foes his age(Members of Passione sharing the same rank weren't colleagues, they were foes.), he'd gotten that lovely tan from overexposure and not from frequenting solaria.  
You could tell the difference as it felt somewhat more brittle than an artificial tan.  
_But it has a lovely touch to it, when I run my finger over his back..._

Abbacchio watched his capo questioning another unsuspecting fisherman with arising homosexual cravings.  
_God, I could stare at that toned body all day long, _he caught himself thinking.  
_Knowing his way around ropes, eh? He could surely test his skills out on me..._

Sexual frustration aside, this was unusual.  
And un-called for horny.

Why was his heart suddenly beating like this?  
And why did his guts feel like they were stuffed with candyfloss and rainbows?

_Alright, where were they?!_

Abbacchio growled as he spotted Moody Blues and Sticky Fingers (They were holding hands for crying out loud!) strolling along the pier drifting on cloud nine.

Against his advice Buccellati had let Sticky Fingers detach himself to help them with their search.  
And then Abbacchio had to let Moody Blues roam free as well, because he didn't want to spend the next forty minutes tortured by a tinnitus. (Actually it was some sort of high-pitched white noise. It could drive you insane, though.)  
Moody Blues did that now when he was angry.

"No, bad Stands! Back to work now, klck, klck," Abbacchio walked up to them clicking his tongue once within earshot (as for the non-Stand users surrounding him: hopefully out of earshot).

Former protégé of Polpo (He must have mistaken him for a real piece of cheese; given his skills and work attitude this was the only logical explanation.) Bastardo del Grappa was a Stand user.  
Which meant he could see other Stands.  
And would right now stare in shock and embarrassment at the love birds Abbacchio was trying to force apart enjoying their day off at the seaside.

Like the guy over there, who kept looking in another direction every time Abbacchio tried to lock gazes with him.

_Oh, no. _

"Bruno," Abbacchio interrupted the memorable burlesque of the jelly fish, the heart urchin and the seagull, "I think we've got a problem..."

* * *

_It was just a hunch_, Abbacchio tried to calm his nerves as he watched Buccellati strike up a conversation, albeit more reserved than the previous dozen ones, with the questionable fisherman.

He looked like a fisherman.  
Thoroughly.  
Without a doubt.

Then again Bastardo had the means and the money to make something like that happen.  
If this was his newly acquired identity and face, then Abbacchio was to tip his hat, or the bonnet as surrogate.  
(On their return. He'd left it with his usual attire back in Naples with Buccellati forcing him into khakis and a blue and black dotted shirt, he wouldn't want to be seen dead in and if Buccellati was to take a photo of him and share it with the rest of the team, he'd better reserve a good spot in the graveyard because there'd be a funeral of five. They'd put him behind bars, but he'd be laughing. Anyway he wore sunglasses at all times, so hopefully no one would recognise his face. The ponytail Buccellati had insisted on he'd abided by, but he'd never button up his shirt...)

Something wasn't right.

Abbacchio could see it in their body language.

Buccellati looked uncomfortable, yet smiled his way obviously dodging the odd question here and there.

_Bruno you need to learn how to control that pushing-your-bangs-behind-your-ears thing. It totally gives off you're nervous. _

His conversation partner fidgeted with his gear.  
Another question.  
Buccellati tensed.

And as inconspicuous as possible he made his way over to the two of them, Stand withdrawn.

"...only for a few days. Catch your breath in this wonderful environment before it's back to work again."

"So...you're not from around here?"

Tensed up, something was upsetting that guy.

Abbacchio drew nearer just in case.  
And saw the disapproving look he was shot.

Buccellati must have caught sight of the alarmed glance Abbacchio had shot him, despite him wearing shades.  
And since he was within ear shot already, felt the need to introduce him to self-proclaimed Mr Robiola.

"Hm..."

Greeting icier than expected.  
Also he kept staring at him in a weird fashion and Abbacchio had to suppress the urge to get out his pocket mirror and find out what was wrong with his face.

"I see...and what brings two young bachelors to the seaside? Plenty of fish in the sea and the like?"

Dodging one awkward question concerning acquaintances after another for almost ten minutes now, Buccellati had his suspicions (unlike Abbacchio who was a bit slow on the uptake).  
That's why he said like others would complain about the inevitable:

"Oh, we just needed a quiet place where we could fuck without Leone's parents snooping around."

Abbacchio's jaw dropped.

Robiola gulped.

Only Buccellati looked undisturbed as he straightened out a crease in his sports coat.

_Hit. _

Robiola deflated, looking crestfallen.

"So he's your..."

"Yes, Leone's my boyfriend. And I can no longer tolerate his mother popping by for a surprise visit or calling him on the phone on the rare occasions we actually get to bang. You know, without either of us being too exhausted from work."

_Mental. _  
How can someone say things like that with a straight face?  
He'd just outed them both in front of a total stranger.  
Without either of them being gay...  
Probably.  
Well, not totally gay... (Abbacchio was speaking for himself on that part, though the past weeks have left him fully questioning Buccellati's heterosexuality.)

_The two of them living the façade of best friends while rutting the night away behind closed doors._  
Was this just a random lie, or a secret fantasy of Bruno's?  
Abbacchio pinched himself for that thought and hoped it would hurt Moody Blues equally.

"You're a nice couple...really..." Robiola stammered awkwardly in the carefree face of Bruno 'Tactlessness' Buccellati (well, who could really blame him?),"Good for you...you seem like a nice, young man, Bruno..."

And a trifle quieter he added.

"...shame...you would have been my eldest' type..."

Real reason to Robiola's fidgeting discovered and here they were laughing and discussing marital life and family.  
Minus Abbacchio, who preferred to act the strong, silent type.

"Your boyfriend looks a bit pale, though. He's not a fisher like you, Bruno?"

"Desk job," Buccellati lied without batting an eyelid, "very demanding. It's his boss. You know when he gets home after a long day he's like ridden hard and put away wet. When this should be my pleasure..."

Against all expectations Robiola joined in on the laughter.  
Again minus Abbacchio who had his pride.  
Unlike some.

"This is our first holiday this year," Buccellati whined before plunging back to less embarrassing topics, discussing business and the like.

So Robiola hadn't seen their Stands at all. He'd just observed Abbacchio following Buccellati but keeping his distance while doing so.

* * *

"Suspect my ass, that guy just wanted you to hook up with his gay son!"

"It's really tiring. This evening I was offered three daughters, one grand-daughter, two nieces and one aunt..."

Thankfully Buccellati missed the jealous look Abbacchio shot him...

"It was a really nice aunt," Buccellati felt obliged to add, "And two old ladies were coming on to me, I think. You know with them going on how they were widowed but I guess it was all in good fun..."

...and then their surroundings in case there were more covetous singles trying to steal his boyfriend.  
_Friend!_

"Moody Blues if you don't stop drooling over Sticky Fingers this instant, I'll swear I'm gonna lose it."

And as expected Buccellati took their side.

"Don't be harsh on them, they're honeymooning..."

"They are not honeymooning!" Abbacchio shouted no longer caring about the glances they were shot, "Otherwise you'd have to imply they were married and we agreed on never bringing up this topic again!"

Then he flopped down next to Buccellati and feigned interest in the ropes the latter was fiddling with.

"Anyway, you've broken your promise already twice this morning. You've got something to say in your defence?"

Buccellati considered this and went eventually:

"Threesome's a charm?"

"Don't you mean 'third time's a charm?"

The nonchalant glance, one perfectly curved eyebrow arched, disagreed.

Abbacchio gulped.

"Should I go back? I'm sure Robiola's son would be interested..."

Abbacchio felt his stomach churn.  
And slacks tighten, damn!  
_Oh god, here comes the blush..._

He sprang to his feet, strutting away, putting a great deal of distance between him and uncommonly adventurous Buccellati as fast as possible.

"You are sick!"

"But dear..." Buccellati called, hand outstretched.

"Don't you dare 'dear' me ever again!"

"Doesn't my love mean anything to you...?"

Was making his life a living hell a full-time occupation or just one of Buccellati's strange hobbies, Abbacchio wondered.  
Of course Buccellati had to make a scene.  
Awesome.  
Just fucking awesome.

Great, now the whole sulk of fishermen was looking at them.

Abbacchio could feel his neck redden under the stares boring into it.

And if that wasn't enough, while glancing back he spotted Robiola comforting Buccellati secretly trying to convince him that his son was a far better match.

Being immature Abbacchio blamed it on Bastardo and added two or three new ways of torture to his mental protocol of interrogation.


	2. Doubled Pleasure

Sitting in the last warming rays of a setting sun, Abbacchio enjoyed the fresh salty breeze tugging at his strands now hanging loose while watching the waves crash on the shore.

Solitude.

_Finally..._

Abbacchio breathed in deeply.

Something Buccellati had said about the sea being alive stirred in his mind.

At least on that one Abbacchio had to agree.  
Not many dead things smelled that way.

Jokes aside, the sea was life.  
Circle of life, revering Mother Nature and all that hippie shit; Abbacchio questioned his sobriety, despite having been granted a decent glass of wine in weeks.  
_Great, _he thought, _that's what it feels like to be Giorno. Poor guy. _

Anyway, the sea was filled with life.  
And weird creatures.  
And one of them was making its way back on shore.

What genus this specimen belonged to was yet to be seen.  
Then again, it shouldn't be that hard to identify.  
Not many crustaceans had chest tattoos...

"It's really refreshing; you should try it too..."

...with matching tramp stamps.

Abbacchio gulped and tried not to peek.

Nothing doing, that perfectly curved ass facing his way as Buccellati had stopped half way out admiring the view, was impossible to ignore.  
It was just so, firm and spherical...  
_God, how touching it must feel..._

Whimpering in dissatisfaction (and feeling embarrassed for doing so), Abbacchio wished Buccellati had worn something that would leave nothing to imagination.  
Rather than just opted for leaving nothing to imagination.

Abbacchio would have loved to comment on that, but he was decent.  
Unlike Buccellati.

_Wait, that's the wrong way to..._

A loud splash and Buccellati had once again disappeared in the waves.

_Great, now he is doing backstrokes_, Abbacchio thought and regretted not bringing binoculars.

Luckily the first curious creatures approaching the main land millennia ago hadn't shared Buccellati's state of mind, as he'd just decided on leaving the water being too much trouble and he'd still have plenty of time to do so later.  
Otherwise humanity would have been in trouble.  
Or evolved thirty minutes later; that being the exact time it took Buccellati to get back ashore.

Curiously eying up the wet specimen that had sat down next to him on his blanket, Abbacchio wouldn't want to speculate on the evolutionary advantages the thing possessed.  
But it was a sea-dweller, alright.  
Forcefully taken out of its natural habitat.

Order: _Passione_  
Family: _Caporegime_  
Genus: _Buccellati_  
Species: _Bruno inverecundus, the shameless Bruno_

Abbacchio pulled up his knees until they'd block his lecherous gaze from parts-that-should-have-a-towel-wrapped-around-them-for-modesty's-sake-goddamnit-Bruno.

"Sure you don't want to go for a dip?" Buccellati asked after emptying a bottle of water he retrieved from his unzipped forearm.

Abbacchio hadn't brought swimming trunks with him.  
And unlike Buccellati he cared.

"I'm fine," Abbacchio croaked sounding nothing like what he'd just said quickly changing the subject, "Anyway what would a guy like Bastardo do around here? I mean the amount he stole would suffice for a few years in modesty but concerning the luxurious lifestyle he's used to..."

"...it's not gonna last long, I know..."

Bruno was considering this placing his hands in his lap.

_Good. _

"...given his age he'd need a lot more for retirement..."

"Yeah, well..."Buccellati stretched; Abbacchio flinched and dug his nails into his thighs.

_Goddamnit!_

"Either way I've got the feeling we're going to solve this mystery soon..."

Clothes zipped back on (thank God for that!) Buccellati sat next to Abbacchio-less-at-risk-to-pop-a-boner enjoying, thoroughly cherishing the moment.

_This could be his home_; Abbacchio could see the weird glint of nostalgia in Buccellati's eyes.  
Would a few small altered details really change the history of the world; what if the wheel of destiny had slipped, a few small changes here and there and next to him there would be sitting a Bruno more fortunate.  
A fisherman himself, working for his still alive father and nurturing these unhealthy cravings for a certain pen-pusher ex-cop.  
Just like he had introduce the two of them to Robiola...  
Of course..._what if..._

It wasn't real.  
And it would never be.

"But why not pretend for just tonight?" Buccellati finished Abbacchio's train of thought.

Okay now, that was really weird.

And due to the glance Abbacchio shot him felt obliged to clarify: "We won't find Bastardo this night, so why don't we call it a day and enjoy ourselves a bit? You know, pretend we're not on a mission here but to recline..."

Alright, less weird but still weird.

Also there was this question bugging Abbacchio, but he just didn't feel able to disturb a happy looking Buccellati watching the colourful ocean in the setting sun.  
Anyway he had to and so after an awkwardly long pause he blurted out:

"Do you hate me Buccellati?"

Buccellati was seemingly taken aback by this direct approach, raising eyebrows until they'd disappear behind the curtain of fringe.  
"No...I...I don't...really..." he stammered forlornly.  
Shit, Buccellati thought.  
He wasn't any good with that kind of talk.  
And knew it.

A clearing of the throat followed by the drumming of fingers on his thighs.

"I value you," Buccellati laid out the words carefully in case an unexpected love confession was to take over the goth (_It were always the strong silent types, he just knew it!)_.  
"I can always rely on you and my faith in you knows no bounders. Without giving it another thought I would entrust you with my life. You are an important addition to the team. And you are important to me, Leone Abbacchio..."

Silence.  
That's not what he had expected.  
Beads of sweat were forming on Buccellati's forehead as the anticipated waterfall of feelings so complicated failed to gush out.

Abbacchio on the other hand stared back at Buccellati, unmoved by the cheesy wannabe-love-confession or whatever the hell it was he'd just been unfortunate enough to hear.  
Then he asked again.

"Do you hate me Buccellati?"

"Why, of course not," he tried again but was interrupted by Abbacchio raising in volume with each word:

"Then why the fuck, Buccellati, have you allowed for those two love-sick morons to sit in the fucking sand on a fucking beach, enjoying a fucking sunset like a fucking real couple?"

He pointed accusingly at their Stands cuddling a little nearer to the shore in an allegory of perfect harmony.

"Just why?! And no, don't you dare. I don't want to hear an explanation that has a word in it which starts with 'honey' and ends with 'moon'. I dare you, I fucking dare you..."

Playing innocent Buccellati shrugged and gave Abbacchio the ingenuous smile of someone whose real intensions had just been laid bare.

"Stands need to recline too and where do you think you're going...!"

Having seen through Abbacchio's plan on forcefully terminating their Stands' tryst by pulling Moody Blues from Sticky Fingers range, Buccellati made a grab for Abbacchio's leg.

Abbacchio stopped in mid-walk.  
Quite literally.  
Two legs are usually needed for walking.  
Despite losing one, Abbacchio hopped on.  
And fell over when Buccellati zipped off his other leg.

An awkward chase later (During the last part limb-less Abbacchio tried crawling down a dune caterpillar-style) Buccellati treated Abbacchio's severed head to a scrutinizing glare, one perfectly brow arched.

"Will you stop that nonsense now?"

"I can still roll," Abbacchio retorted matter-of-factly.

Buccellati sat down again, head placed in his lap thinking hard about something.  
(_Weird. And warm. Abbacchio blushed at the sensation of Bruno's thighs on his cheek and hoped Buccellati wouldn't notice.)_

Then he reached a decision.

From his zipped open abdomen he produced a bottle of wine and two glasses.  
"Truce?" he asked nodding in their spooning Stands' direction.

Baiting him like that was low, even for Buccellati's standards.  
But the prospect of some wine (perhaps followed by some hard liquor if he was well-behaved; there surely was some kept in his capo/pantry) made Abbacchio go weak.

"Truce," he confirmed licking his lips.

Ten minutes later Abbacchio regretted his decision.  
Bottle half-way gone he was still too sober to enjoy the clicking and churning abomination rolling around in the sand like sex-starved teenagers.  
On the upside he was zipped together again and rubbing elbows with Buccellati (quite literally; drunk Buccellati was oblivious to the concept of personal space).  
Their Stands had worked their way from elbows to chest and were now exploring each other's pelvis and thighs and God was it embarrassing to feel Buccellati's body beneath his touch via the physical bond he shared with love-crazed fax machine.

"Fucking Stands," Abbacchio muttered.

Buccellati giggled in response. (Not at the bittersweetness of the comment. He was just very ticklish around the hipbones...)

Both tried denying sharing a second hand kiss and cuddle (soon to culminate in a shag and blowjob. Why were their Stands so goddamn horny?).

"God, I wish I'd brought a book," Abbacchio muttered swirling his glass.

"We're surrounded by mother nature at its best," Buccellati had the gall to sound shocked (_Sure his parents hadn't just raised a passing sea creature as their kid?)_, "The fresh air, the sea and a quiet beach in a sunset. How can you think about reading?"

"Not to read, to throw at them," Abbacchio clarified and tossed another conch in their direction.

It was futile.

"Is this Chardonnay not to your liking?" Buccellati said conversationally at the apparent lack of enthusiasm Abbacchio had for his drink.

"Can't swallow," he replied hoarsely and waited for Sticky Fingers to stop French kissing Moody Blues, "you see, there's this tongue shoved down my throat..."

"Moody Blues doesn't have a throat," Buccellati chuckled and refilled his glass. Actually he spilled rather than filled. So he re-spilled his glass.

There was a sassy reply Abbacchio wanted to retort.  
Problem was it got stuck in his throat.  
Blocked by a tongue again.

"Where did he...learn to kiss like...that?" Abbacchio panted heavily once he had the chance to.  
Taking into account how Stands mirrored their Users he changed that to: "Where did _you_ learn to kiss like that?" while addressing Buccellati.

"In a confessionary," Buccellati smacked his lips at the last drops gone, "Don't look at me like that, Leone; the village I grew up in, catholic down to the roots. 'Mea Pulmo. Mea Rhizostoma Pulmo...that kind of stuff..."

"Andrea Bocconcini, or Bocconcini Piccolo as we all called him. You know since he was the youngest of five and with his father being...the big cheese..."

Abbacchio pitied Buccellati for his bad humour.  
But he enjoyed the hand now resting in his lap as Buccellati had accidentally slapped his thigh instead of his own.

"We were both acolytes, I must have been twelve, you know since it was before..."  
Buccellati waved his hand as if trying to chase away some bad memories thereby.  
"Anyway Bocconcini Piccolo was two or three years older than me. Fairly knew each other, really. Then one day, grabs me by the collar, pushes me inside the confessionary and teaches me how to French kiss..."

"I was a really bad pupil," Buccellati sniggered, "so we had to practice quite often. And we kept meeting up in the confessionary to kiss and make out. Until Monsignor Formaggio Alta Pusteria caught us. But then we got to do it again, after Bocconcini Piccolo threatened to make Monsignor's liaison with the widow Ossolano d'alpe public."

Buccellati smiled oddly at the recollection of days long gone.

"He was such a good kisser..."  
He considered this.  
"Probably still is...I wonder if he's married..."

"Bruno you both grew up in a fishing village. He's not just married, he has seven to ten children already, with the first grandchild on its way..."

"That's not even possible..." but then Buccellati started calculating.  
And gave up soon.

"And there I have been under the false impression your first girlfriend was a gilt-head bream."

"Nah, they're not really my type," Buccellati answered truthfully, "I prefer jellyfish."

"To kiss?!"

"No, to look at," he clarified somewhat taken aback, "also to stroke since they're so squishy."  
And after a short pause he added.  
"Hm, that's where Sticky Fingers got it from..."

"Got what from?"

Sensing his Stand being mocked, Abbacchio was suddenly all sobered up.

"You know," Buccellati teased, running his fingers down the exposed chest between the unbuttoned shirt in what he believed to be an amicable gesture. (It wasn't. He was a creep.)  
"What makes him gravitate to Moody Blues...the slick, perfectly round ass that makes you want to bury your nails in it and give it a good squeeze..."

Preventing further lascivious and questionably bisexual praises drip from Buccellati's lips (Please God, let it be the booze talking!) Abbacchio reached for his mouth to cover it with his hand.  
Correction.  
He wanted to slap his hand across his mouth when his fingers had slipped, buried themselves in Buccellati's hair, still wet from the dip, and forced their heads together, mouths colliding.  
It did shut him up, though.

Fucking Stands.  
Stupid fucking Stands unable to keep their hands of each other.  
Also quite literally.  
And now Abbacchio was getting horny from Sticky Fingers orally examining parts of Moody Blues he wished to stay zipped to his body, thank you very much.  
But feeling Buccellati's tongue invade his mouth and lick more delicate parts at the same time was pleasure overload.

"That was...astonishing..."Buccellati panted once their lips parted, "wow you...I..."  
To finish his sentence he waited until Moody Blues was done face-fucking Sticky Fingers and let himself be jacked off as an intermission.  
Mouth temporarily unoccupied he stammered:

"...it makes me want to reach under your surplice and give you a good rub down there..."

"What?" Buccellati shrugged under the shocked glance he was shot.

"Please stop talking, you're ruining this for me," was what Abbacchio wanted to stay.  
Instead he moaned: "Bruno..." and lounged at Buccellati again kissing and biting his way down his neck and collarbone.

He couldn't help it.  
They couldn't help it; the past thirty minutes pretending to not have a ghostly hand pleasuring them manually (and with expertise) they had reached their painful limit, leaving them both eager to free their neglected erections from their undergarmental confinement and rut against the next eligible surface.

Giving in to their pent up arousal they moaned and cried out sickly sweet things and ridiculously horny suggestions, or simply swore as in Buccellati's case. He shamelessly cussed while playfully mounting the equally horny body beneath him using never heard of phrases and slurs that made even Abbacchio blush (which the latter blamed on his upbringing by the seaside.

Too caught up in their own concupiscence, Abbacchio thought he had no care in the world.  
But revoked that statement instantly as a mischievously grinning Buccellati had wrestled him down and was now kneeling on his chest, freed erection uncomfortably close to his face.

"I've got an idea..."

Abbacchio wouldn't like it; he never ended up doing so when Buccellati introduced something that way.  
But there was something to Buccellati's face...  
A stray strand of kelp.  
And sand.

Abbacchio hated himself for his wandering mind when offered a chance to lay a pipe.  
(Like how he had kept thinking about the Pythagorean Theorem while his first girlfriend had deflowered him.)

Okay, but sand aside the way Buccellati smiled at him, cheeks flushed, a weird lecherous glint in his eyes, all ruttish and willing and Abbacchio would throw himself at his mercy.

"I think it would be only fair if we...you know...mirrored our Stands..."

"In what way," Abbacchio panted, unable to tear his gaze from the twitching thing brushing against his cheek.

"Sticky Fingers is...well..."

He needn't go into detail; Abbacchio could feel the shared sensation of the soft mouth closing around his cock occasionally nipping at his balls and glans.

"and I thought...you might want to return the favour?"

Abbacchio really didn't want to but ended up complying nonetheless.  
It was awkward, really awkward to have Buccellati kneeling over him with his most delicate organ slipping in and out of his mouth accompanied by an obscenely wet sound.  
Not looking at Buccellati while doing so was a huge improvement.  
That way he could spare himself the sight of Buccellati cooing and wrinkling his nose at the flushed cheeks betraying Abbacchio.

Also he wasn't getting turned on by sucking off Buccellati in the least, he kept reassuring himself.  
Sticky Fingers licking his way up and down Moody Blues'...well whatever it was their Stands had, but it sure as hell was turning him on.  
Abbacchio wished he could trick himself into believing that.

Buccellati hummed in pleasure on top of him but gasped as Abbacchio clenched his teeth without a warning.

"Everything alright," he stammered, carefully tending to his hurting manhood, "you don't look so good..."

"Fucking thing is lying on a conch," Abbacchio panted and tried turning this way and that, "stupid, fucking, horny thing..."

He tossed a few stones in their Stands' direction, but it was really Buccellati who got Sticky Fingers to move Moody Blues a bit to the side.

Pain in the back gone they continued where they'd left off, changing positions as Buccellati had suggested; Abbacchio now grabbing onto his capo's thighs, his face disappearing between them.

_And this should be the moment,_ Abbacchio mused, _where I should reminiscent about our relationship so far, how everything had changed, how happy I am with Bruno in my life. Prospects of the future, poetic metaphors and love confessions. _  
Thing was, he was horny as fuck and simply enjoying the moment too much to be bothered by similar trivial thoughts.  
Except when a finger was running down his spine before grabbing his butt and giving it a firm squeeze.

_So Bruno was right about the soft Stand texture thing, Goddamnit._  
And Abbacchio hated him for it.

Being felt up by Buccellati's practised fingers (on whom he wouldn't want to hazard a guess, though) ghosting over his backside was one thing.  
Feeling Sticky Fingers Standian equivalent of a dick align with Moody Blues'... Pouch? fuck hole?...whatever it was they abused for their pleasure; well that was another thing.

Unable to prevent it from happening, (_No foreplay? Shame on you Sticky Fingers. And on Moody Blues for being an easy lay!)_ Abbacchio lunged at Buccellati trapping him underneath him.  
The latter giving off a dissatisfied whine as his throbbing member was no longer cared for by Abbacchio's soft oral cavity, Abbacchio intensified his grip on him as he tried pushing him off.

"No you don't," he whispered, forcing Buccellati onto his stomach.

"What are you doing," Buccellati in the face of some bottom anal action suddenly stripped off his confidence hissed in return.

"Hmh...I recall something about someone suggesting mirroring our Stands..."

"Oh, the blushing virgin," Abbacchio mocked Buccellati while leaning over the shivering body underneath him, rubbing his forehead against Buccellati's burning cheeks, "are you always acting so coyly when you're about to get laid? Better yet, when was the last time someone was fooled by this charade?"

Buccellati arched his back in return and since it didn't have the desired effect, bucked his hips.  
Which as expected didn't have the desired effect either.

"You know what," Buccellati said after unsuccessful attempts to squirm and wriggle his way out of the firm grasp Abbacchio maintained on his hips, "fuck this. I'm too horny to care. Also it's just sex so let's get this over with..."

Abbacchio ran his hands over Buccellati's body sending shivers down his capo's spine in the process.

"Where do you keep the lube?" he asked eventually padding down the latter's lower back as if he could feel the stored in place that way.

"Your neck?" Abbacchio asked as Buccellati retrieved a bottle of lube and condoms from a zipped open space in the nape of his neck.

"Stays warm that way," he mumbled in his defence.

All lubed up and ready for the night that they would deny for the rest of their lives had ever happened, Buccellati grew aware of the trouble Abbacchio was having fitting his length into his entrance.

Something nudged Abbacchio's thigh and he stared down in horror at the thing Buccellati was offering.

"Where did you get that..."

"I thought you needed help stretching it a bit..."

"Put it back!" Abbacchio said firmly and grabbed onto the golden zipper slowly vanishing on Buccellati's chest just in time to reopen it and cram the pink wobbly latex monstrosity back inside.

"It was just a suggestion..."

"I'll make do with my fingers for now," Abbacchio informed Buccellati but added a trifle quieter, "in case you've not already successfully killed off my erection..."

_Who the fuck hummed to himself while they were stretched and fingered_, Abbacchio kept wondering.  
Slapping Buccellati's lovely backside did the trick.  
It didn't shut him up.  
But produced much more enjoyable noises.

And Abbacchio soon joined in.

A double penetration.  
Not in a conventional sense anyway.  
This way they would both enjoy the pleasure of fucking and getting fucked simultaneously.  
Versatility at its fullest.  
Buccellati felt it too, felt the shared experience of Abbacchio's warm, velvety entrance tightening around his cock.  
Heard the clicking and churning noises Moody Blues was making in response to the immense pleasure.  
And felt the shivers run through Abbacchio every time Sticky Fingers hit a good spot inside his counterpart.

Disappointing poetic assumptions the strange intimacy they shared didn't last for several eons.  
But it lasted long enough for both to savour it.  
And perhaps even unintentionally they planted the seed of something not yet ready to spring forth.  
Something that might bud into bloom when the time was ripe.

How they had ended up in the sea neither of them could recall.  
Buccellati blamed it on the changing of the tide.  
Abbacchio blamed it on his forceful thrust. Which Buccellati filed under wishful thinking.

"Sex in the sea is just the best," Buccellati sighed all relaxed now.  
Done in a way.  
But not done yet snuggling up to Abbacchio and hugging his chest.  
Cuddly Monster.

"Yeah, all the excitement...crayfish, predators, waves pulling you under..."

_Buccellati didn't just like jelly fish as he had stated previously, they probably shared the same ancestors_, Abbacchio snarled unable to remove Buccellati's 'tentacles' from his body.  
_Why are there red marks on my chest, did his suckers leave traces?  
Do jelly fish have suckers or am I confusing them with octopi?_

Abbacchio was somewhat ashamed of his lack of knowledge concerning marine life.

_More importantly, do jelly fish cuddle after they're done mating?_

The arm successfully detached from his torso slipped down and grabbed onto his hip.

And watching Bruno the capo sized jelly fish cuddling he deducted, yes they probably did.

"...and helps freshen up the love..." Buccellati giggled into himself.

But before Abbacchio could have whacked him over the head Bruno pointed and said: "Oh look, they are joining us..."

They weren't. Not in a traditional sense at least.  
Thing was, being used to hovering surfaces didn't mean that much to them, so Sticky Fingers and Moody Blues had walked the better part into the water.

"You're supposed to be in it," Abbacchio criticised and to his astonishment Moody Blues drifted deeper.  
Then he looked at the two of them and decided on trying out Buccellati's post-coital cuddle attack on Sticky Fingers.

"Aw, isn't this sweet," Buccellati cooed, wrinkling his nose, moved.

"He thinks you're the woman, then" Abbacchio stated matter-of-factly as his Stand, under the bad influence of classic movies and dated soap operas, had until now mimicked the behaviourism of a neglected sixties housewife.

"What!?"

A dispute about healthy relationships and modern days' society's views on it followed and Abbacchio had almost missed the boat passing them due to the power of Buccellati's winning argument.  
(It mainly consisted of him forcing Abbacchio's head under water. But considering he was about to lose consciousness, it was definitely winning.)

Somewhat dizzy Abbacchio could make out a man leaning on the guardrail to get a better look at them before his eyes wandered over to the embracing merged embarrassment that were Sticky Blues.  
It took a few seconds to sink in.

"Sticky Fingers!"

Buccellati was quicker.  
His detached arm hit Bastardo square in the jaw and knocked him off his ship.

* * *

"That really was something..."

Abbacchio was leaning on the guardrail next to Buccellati enjoying the nightly breeze.

"Who would have expected him to show up at a time like this?"

Buccellati shrugged, all earnest and businesslike now; only the odd hicky adorning his neck bearing witness to their possibly friendship wrecking experience.  
No traces left of the clingy, huggy mess that had clung to Abbacchio in the afterglow of their orgasms.

Abbacchio wished it had lasted a tad longer.  
And hated himself for feeling that way.

Alright, Abbacchio would have to admit it, Buccellati was the woman in their non-existent relationship and now he was showering him with pheromones and oxytocin.  
There was simply no other explanation for his love-sick behaviour...

"What was he doing out here in the middle of the night?"  
Abbacchio changed the subject before more inappropriate thoughts could worm their way into his sub-consciousness.

"Glad you asked," Buccellati motioned to follow him below deck, "turns out our assumptions of him looking for a new source of income were right. I checked the logbook and he's been meeting up with someone..."

"Smuggling..." Abbacchio deducted and Buccellati nodded in approval and led him to a table with a small box placed on it.  
Shielded by layer after layer of bubble wrap.

"Eggs?"

Abbacchio treated the box' contents to a scrutinizing stare.

"From various tortoises and turtles. To be shipped off as illegal delicacy. Most of them belong to endangered species..."

"So we got our man after all," Abbacchio said once the baby turtles in potentia were stored away safely.

"Hm."

"So it's back to Naples I guess."

"Right," Buccellati agreed.

_And was acting suspicious as fuck.  
Bangs pushed behind his ears, alright now, what's going on... _

"After we handed over Bastardo to Passione's authorities..." Abbacchio tried to uncover the disquieting secret yet to be told.

"Yes, of course."

"And get rid of the eggs..."

Hit.

Abbacchio watched Buccellati tending to this valve and that pretending to have gone momentarily deaf.

"I said we will have to get rid of the eggs first..."

No response.

"Bruno!"

"I might have reported back to our team," Buccellati admitted feigning a sudden interest in some nautical machinery Abbacchio couldn't identify, "about the success..."

"And..."

"And I might have made the mistake of mentioning a bunch of turtles' eggs..."

"...to..." Abbacchio urged him to continue.

"To Giorno..."

Abbacchio moaned in desperation.

Buccellati waited until it had died down.

"Do you know anything about taking care of reptiles?"

"Bruno!"


End file.
